


The Sherlock Files

by sam80853



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Book/Movie Fusion, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 10:06:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1684457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sam80853/pseuds/sam80853
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is the only openly practising wizard in London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sherlock Files

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stormymouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormymouse/gifts).



221B Baker Street was the home of the only openly practising professional wizard in London, Sherlock Holmes. Actually, his landlady Mrs Hudson was the reason Sherlock could call 221B a home. She was the one giving his place the strengths to prevent anything and everything to enter uninvited that was not from this world. 

People mostly forget that only a home - a place where people live and love and have built a life in - have a power of their own, and Mrs Hudson had done all that. Especially since Sherlock had moved in - which wasn’t always a reason for celebration as she would be the first to admit. Living with a wizard had certain drawbacks: the house had been set on fire once, almost burned to the ground with Mrs Hudson still inside. Of course, Sherlock had saved the day - and her - as he always did. 

Still, it was risky to call Sherlock your friend and even riskier if he considered you important. Which, in all honesty, he rarely did. It was better that way; Sherlock had figured a long time ago that caring was not an advantage as Sherlock’s brother Mycroft had once told his younger sibling. Lately though Sherlock’s walls had become fractured, almost non-existent in certain places, ever since Doctor John H. Watson had joined Scotland Yard as their medical examiner.

John had been an Army doctor, invalided home from Afghanistan some months ago with an intermittent tremor in his dominant hand and a psychosomatic limp. He had been drifting without purpose - even thinking about taking his own life - when John had literally stumbled upon Sherlock. 

John had been trying to save Sherlock’s life - a dangerous attempt in the best of circumstances. Even deadlier when dealing with the Nevernever - the spirit world existing alongside our own- and its creations. 

In the end it had been Sherlock saving John’s life. In more than one way. 

Sherlock was a consultant for Scotland Yard and had recommended John for the job as medical examiner which had given John a purpose to help people get closure in helping to solve their loved ones’ murders. It had also given Sherlock opportunity to get closer to the mystery that was John Watson and a tender friendship had been built. It certainly helped that John believed in the spiritual world and Sherlock’s power, sometimes frighteningly so.

Of course, people - ordinary people - encountered ghosts and vampires, psychics and haunts but didn’t take them seriously. They were idiots. The lot of them. Not John Watson though.  
He had been fully aware of what he saw when he first met Sherlock, and he had seen what Sherlock was capable of. At least, he had gotten a glimpse of what Sherlock could do. Sometimes not even Sherlock was able to tell how much power really lay within him. 

John was usually the one calling Sherlock when his expertise was needed - something that DI Lestrade and his team rarely admitted. Which made it even more mysterious when a police car stopped in front of 221 Baker Street and Sally Donovan and her partner Philip Anderson emerged.

“I’m busy,” Sherlock said, lying on his couch, eyes closed when the police officers entered his flat.

“That much is obvious,’” Anderson muttered under his breath.

“You need to come with us,” Sally Donovan said and something in her voice made Sherlock sit up, eyeing her closely.

“Something happened,” he said, cocking his head like just looking at her would tell him everything he needed to know. She was in anguish, that much was obvious. Frightened even.

Interesting.

“Obvious deduction,” Anderson said with disdain in his voice.

“Not now, Anderson,” Donovan said. “It’s Lestrade, Sherlock. John told us to get you.”

“John?” Sherlock was up in an instant. 

Donovan and Anderson usually avoided coming to Sherlock’s flat at all costs. The situation must be dire if they could be persuaded to fetch him and not John.

“Where is John?” Sherlock asked, his stomach suddenly in knots.

“He’s with Lestrade,” Donovan answered. “We need to hurry.”

Sherlock only nodded his head, reaching for his coat.

The ride was quiet; Anderson ignored Sherlock while Donovan steered the car toward DI Lestrade’s home. Neither used the time to give Sherlock more information about what was going on. They obviously didn’t know, which made Sherlock nervous. Not that they didn’t know, they were idiots after all, but why was John at Lestrade’s home? Why hadn’t he called Sherlock?

Donovan pulled the car up alongside the curb where half a dozen vehicles were already cluttering the small space, including John’s.

Sherlock got out of the car and felt something wrong. An uneasy feeling crept up his body, making him go cold inside. Something similar to fear settled against his spine. He looked around but nothing jumped at him.

“Sherlock,” Anderson snapped. “Let’s go!”

Sherlock didn’t feel the need to acknowledge Anderson. Instead he lifted his hand, extending his senses out, pushing his perception out along with his will.

He drifted across the street and found the first body: a small, yellow-furred cat. Something had broken its neck. Sherlock could feel a little cloud of disturbance around it, a psychic energy left by a traumatic, torturous event. Not enough to have an impact on his senses though. Something else must have happened nearby… A few feet farther he found a dead bird. Broken wings.  
Two more dead birds just around the corner. Their heads missing.  
All in all Sherlock sensed a dozen dead animals that had disturbed his wizard’s senses.

Interesting.

“Jesus,” Donovan mumbled beside Sherlock. “What did this?”

“It may take me a moments to find out,” Sherlock said and strode toward Lestrade’s house. He stopped short outside the doorway. With Lestrade’s marriage falling apart Sherlock had figured he wouldn’t have any trouble entering but it seemed their once strong bond wasn’t completely gone yet. “Is his wife here?” Sherlock asked Donovan who had stepped over the threshold without a second hesitation.

“Yes.”

“Go get her,” Sherlock said. “She needs to invite me in.”

“What the hell?” Anderson said. “Who are you? Dracula?”

“He’s still in Eastern Europe last time I checked,” Sherlock replied deadpan. “John?” He called out, knowing that his friend would be around somewhere.

“Sherlock,” John rounded the corner, wearing one of his dreadful jumpers.

“John,” Sherlock sighed with relief. He was safe and quicker to follow his orders. “I need Lestrade’s wife.”

“Okay,” John said and turned in search for her.

“Seriously?” Anderson asked and rolled his eyes.

“Yes, seriously.” The whole situation had become tedious rather quickly.

“Mr Holmes,” John had found Lestrade’s wife…

“Susanne,” John whispered under his breath. Of course, Sherlock would not remember such a trivial thing as the name of DI Lestrade’s wife.

“Susanne,” Sherlock smiled. “I need you to invite me in. Quickly.”

Susanne Lestrade frowned and looked at John for reassurance, who in turn slumped his shoulders over Sherlock’s rudeness.

“Just invite him in,” John said in a soft voice, touching her arm. “He can help Greg.”

She nodded in agreement and finally said: “I invite you.”

Sherlock stepped over the threshold and felt only the whisper of the home’s wards. He went through the living room with John by his side. Most of the assembled police officers looked at them with scepticism in their eyes but nobody dared to say a word. They were frightened.

“How bad?” Sherlock whispered.

“Bad.”

They stopped in front of what must be the nursery and John touched Sherlock’s arm before he could open the door.

“Please be careful,” he said without looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded briefly, opened the door and stepped inside.

Lestrade was crouched down in the back of the room by his daughter’s bed, rocking back and forth. His head came up when the door fell shut behind Sherlock and Lestrade started screaming.

As sudden as he had started, he stopped and giggled madly instead. Lestrade stared at Sherlock with white-rimmed eyes and Sherlock dared not look at him directly. To be drawn into a soulgaze with the man right now would be absolutely horrifying.

Sherlock rummaged around in the inside pocket of his coat. He had some chalk with him in case he needed to draw a circle. A candle. Some matches. Not much, really.

Lestrade was still giggling madly when Sherlock stepped closer, his eyes never leaving Lestrade’s form.

“I’m going to touch you,” Sherlock said in a calm voice, hand outstretched toward Lestrade’s arm. “I can help you,” he assured the man. “Whatever it is, do you understand?”

“It hurts,” Lestrade whispered between giggles and a cold shiver ran down Sherlock’s spine.

“Hurts. Hurts. Hurts.”

Lestrade was fever-hot to Sherlock’s touch. He could sense some kind of force at work - not the tingling energy of a practitioner’s aura, or the ocean-deep power of a Knight’s faith, but there was _something_ there. Some cold, crawling energy torturing Lestrade’s mind and body.

Sherlock could not feel any spell at work. At least, none that he knew. And Lestrade was definitely not possessed - he would have known as soon as he had touched him.

Sherlock took a deep breath and let go of Lestrade’s arm. He closed his eyes briefly and opened his wizard’s Sight. 

The Sight allowed Sherlock to see the world’s supernatural side, allowing the perception of things hidden to the normal eye. Unfortunately, whatever Sherlock saw through the Sight would stay with him forever. Never forgotten. Never fading. It could easily drive someone insane.

Sherlock fixed the Sight on Lestrade and his nostrils flared. Lestrade had been ravaged. Torn apart. He was missing flesh everywhere like something had attacked him and had taken huge bites. He bled and bled, endlessly. Never staining the floor he was sitting on.

A black wire wound around Lestrade’s body, starting at his throat, its end disappearing into his skin.

Any other person might have thrown up but Sherlock had seen more than could possibly be imagined and he was focused. Focused on figuring out what had taken hold of Lestrade. Sherlock would be hard pressed to say that Lestrade was a friend but he was someone he respected, who respected him. John was the one with the hero complex but still, Sherlock would not stand by to see Lestrade destroyed.

“It hurts, hurts, hurts, hurts…,” Lestrade chanted and it took all of Sherlock’s control not to snap at him to be quiet. 

He needed to think.

_Think._

The wire had to be some kind of spell but Sherlock had never seen anything like it.  
Most magic throbbed and pulsed with light, life, even if it was used - as in this case - for torture. This magic though was dull, flat, black. And so very cold when Sherlock reached out to touch it.

Interesting.

Sherlock could easily get lost in admiring the magic to create this but a voice - that sounded rather like John - inside his head screamed: _Lestrade_.

Sherlock shook his head, perhaps a bit annoyed with John, but nevertheless he set to work, slowly reaching for the wire at Lestrade’s ankle. He forced his will, his power, into the touch and pulled. Slowly at first, and then harder.

It burned, and Sherlock’s fingers went numb. The barbed wire resisted, clinging to Lestrade’s flesh and the man screamed and screamed.

“Sherlock?” John called from behind the closed door.

“I’m alright,” Sherlock called out, clenching his teeth, and still pulling at the wire. “Do not come in, John!” He warned. John would not be able to stay out of this, Sherlock knew. He had to work quickly for all their sakes.

The cold magic burned Sherlock’s fingers but, finally, the wire yielded and inch by inch Sherlock was able to start pulling it off Lestrade who kept on screaming until he was out of breath. Sherlock kept on pulling until the last coil unwound from Lestrade’s neck, setting him free, and Lestrade sunk to the floor with a whimper and moan.

Sherlock held the wire, gasping desperately for air. He was drenched in sweat when suddenly the wire spun around like a snake and attached itself to Sherlock’s throat.

Ice.

Cold.

Sherlock gasped in shock, the wire thrashing around, trying to engulf Sherlock’s whole body. He was too weak now and it hurt so very much. 

Cold barbs dug into Sherlock’s skin and it felt like something was ripping big chunks of flesh off of him, eating him alive. He screamed.

The door bust open. John came through, his eyes living flames of azure blue, his hair a golden corona around him. He held a blazing sword in his hand and he shone so bright and beautiful and terrifying in his anger. Sherlock gasped at the sight of John and suddenly realized that he still looked with the Sight and saw John for what he really was.

“Sherlock! Jesus!”

Sherlock started struggling against the wire again. He needed to get this off of him and out of John’s reach. He would not be strong enough to fight this for much longer.

“The window, John. Open the window.” Sherlock whispered and John didn’t hesitate for a second, crossing the room and threw open the window.

Sherlock’s mind screamed in agony when he twisted the frozen wire around his hand and pulled again, harder. Anger surged through him, hot and bright, and when he reached for his last resort of power he pulled the wire free and threw it out the open window with all he had left.

_“Fuego!”_ Sherlock snarled and fire came to his call, roaring through his fingertips toward the wire. It vanished in a detonation that rattled the house and Sherlock fell to the floor, his body aching from the cold.

“Sherlock,” John was at his side in a heartbeat and Sherlock closed the Sight quickly not to be blinded by John’s light. “Jesus, are you alright? Is Lestrade?” John’s hands touched Sherlock’s body and what was cold before turned comfortably warm. Hot even. Everywhere John touched, warmth followed and Sherlock sighed deeply. “I’m fine, John. Just fine.”

John nodded his head and withdrew his hands, scratching his head now like he was embarrassed.

“It’s all fine, John,” Sherlock reassured and sat up straighter. John was not a man of magic but whatever he was or did, Sherlock felt better.

“Alright then,” John said and hunched over Lestrade now. “His fever is gone,” he assessed and looked at Sherlock. “What happened here?”

“I don’t know yet,” Sherlock admitted. “Something tried to tear him apart,” he continued. “Like nightmares that leave physical wounds upon your body.”

John took in a deep breath. He was all too aware of what nightmares were able to do to one's mental state, but if they could do actual physical damage? He shuddered and his hand went to a little talisman around his neck. Sherlock had given it to him to protect John’s sleep, his mind. Thinking about going through all that again left him breathless.

Sherlock’s hand closed over John’s around the talisman.

“John,” he whispered, “you are stronger now,” he said when suddenly Donovan and Anderson rushed into the room, destroying their connection. 

They drew apart; Sherlock took on his untouchable demeanor again while John took care of the still unconscious Lestrade.

“I will leave you to it,” Sherlock said when Donovan and Anderson joined John’s attempt to get Lestrade off the floor and into the bed.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” John said, lifting Lestrade off the ground with the two detectives' help. 

Sherlock just nodded his head and left.

His body ached, not as badly as before John touched him, but his mind buzzed with the mystery laid out before him.

~::~::~::~:~

Stepping over the threshold of 221 Baker Street made Sherlock aware of a presence other than Mrs Hudson in his home.

He huffed in annoyance.

Mycroft.

Sherlock’s brother sat in the chair John occupied when he visited and Sherlock’s hackles rose. Mycroft knew, he knew and still…

“How is Doctor Watson?” Mycroft asked when Sherlock entered his flat.

“I don’t have time for this.” Sherlock answered and sank down onto his couch, closing his eyes. Perhaps ignoring Mycroft would make him leave faster.

“I see,” Mycroft said, reaching for the cup of tea he had made while Sherlock was out. “I gather that DI Lestrade is out of immediate danger?”

Sherlock sat up.

“What do you know about this?”

Mycroft cocked his head at his younger brother. Like Sherlock he was born a wizard but other than Sherlock he didn’t share that piece of information with the world. He was a Warden acting as a liaison between the British Government and the White Council, safeguarding the Seven Laws of Magic while trying to keep his brother protected. Which as everybody could attest was no easy task. Sherlock’s actions often led dangerously close to overstepping the Laws of Magic, making him an easy target for the Council and their death sentence for practitioners of black magic.

“You need to leave this one alone, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his gazed fixed on his brother.

Sherlock frowned.

“What did this?”

“Sherlock, please.”

“This -- Nightmare went straight through Lestrade’s threshold when it should have been stopped cold,” Sherlock said, now pacing back and forth in front of Mycroft. “Even if it had passed it should not have had that kind of power to lay a spell on Lestrade and almost destroy him,” he concluded. “What am I dealing with, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked again.

“Sherlock…”

“What. Am. I. Dealing. With?”

“I don’t know.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock warned.

“Seriously Sherlock, there are things that I do not know,” Mycroft looked pained saying this. “I know enough, though. This ghost, this nightmare, got hold of Lestrade, of you. It _ate_ your magic, for God's sake, Sherlock.”

The feeling of coldness, emptiness, after the attack made sense to Sherlock now. It ate his magic… John had put a stop to it, though. He had touched Sherlock and the coldness had backed off.

“How…?” How could something eat his magic? How did it get inside...

“It just walked through a threshold,” Mycroft said and Sherlock nodded his head.

“Perhaps it got around it somehow.” Sherlock said.

“How?”

“Perhaps it got invited.”

“Who would have done that?” Mycroft rose one eyebrow. “Think, Sherlock!”

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair in frustration. Nothing would come to mind, nothing.

“Why Lestrade?” Mycroft kept on asking questions. “If somebody wanted your attention why not…”

“John,” Sherlock gasped.

“Indeed.”

“John is wearing my talisman, he’s protected.” Sherlock sounded desperate to his own ears.

“It walked though a threshold,” Mycroft repeated and Sherlock bolted out the door.

_John._

~::~::~::~::~

Sherlock flagged down a cab and dialed John’s phone while the taxi sped toward Scotland Yard.

“John,” Sherlock said when John finally picked up his phone. The reception was bad - either John was still down in the Morgue or…

_“Sherlock?”_

“Where are you, John?” Sherlock asked.

_“Just finishing up,”_ John answered. _“Are you calling to tell me you will be late?”_

“Late? John, what are you talking about?” Sherlock looked at his phone in confusion. “Never mind, I will be there in twenty minutes. Just wait for me and DO NOT fall asleep.”

_“That’s not what you just said,”_ John said. _“You said ten, Sherlock. Ten minutes. I haven’t slept for two days and I need…”_

“John!” Sherlock interrupted, feeling cold running through his body. “We haven’t talked since I left Lestrade’s. Just wait for me, John,” he urged and hung up the phone.

Something had talked to John, convincing him to be Sherlock. It would have been easy. The Nightmare had eaten some of Sherlock’s magic after all…

Sally Donovan blinked at Sherlock in confusing when he strode into the Yard.

“Which way did I go?”

“What?” Sally asked and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Did I just come through here?”

“Yes. You went to see John a minute ago…”

“Need to do that again,” Sherlock said more to himself and passed by Sergeant Donovan who started following him.

“What is going on?” She asked, moving farther into the building.

Sherlock lifted her hand to silence her.

“Where is John?” He asked, and looking around.

“In Lestrade’s office,” Anderson said, looking suspiciously between Sherlock and Lestrade’s office door. “With you.”

Sherlock strode toward the office door but paused before entering. John was sitting in Lestrade’s chair, still wearing the same clothes from this morning. Sherlock stood right behind him, his hands rested on either side of John’s face, fingertips on his temples, reaching _inside_. John sat perfectly still, staring forward with his blue eyes set in an expression of horror.

“Get the hell off of him!” Sherlock demanded, rushing through the door.

The Nightmare’s eyes snapped up, sparkling with a cold, calm intelligence. 

“Be thou silent, wizard,” it said. “Else I will tear thee apart, as I did before.”

Donovan and Anderson entered behind Sherlock as he repeated: “I said get off of him!”

The Nightmare’s mouth twisted into a smile. It lifted its hands off of John, fingers just sliding out of his skin. It held up its palms toward Sherlock. “There is something thou hast forgotten, wizard.”

Sherlock frowned before he could say anything the Nightmare whispered: “ _Ventas servitas_ ,” and threw Sherlock’s own magic back at him.

Wind roared up in a sudden fury and hurled Sherlock off his feet. He collided with Donovan and Anderson. They went down in a heap and the Nightmare walked just past them. Calm and undisturbed.

“What the hell was that?” Anderson whimpered next to Sherlock but Sherlock just stumbled to his feet, rushing toward John.

That thing had used Sherlock’s magic, used his face. To hurt John.

John sat still in his chair, his eyes wide staring and horrified.

“John?” Sherlock asked, kneeling in front of him. “John?” He asked again, waving his hand in front of John’s eyes. 

He didn’t blink.

John’s eyes were dilated wide, unseeing. Sherlock looked deeper, forcing a soulgaze.  
Eyes are the window to one’s soul and when a wizard looked deep into your eyes, you cannot hide from him. He can see deep down into you, see the truest parts of your character, the dark places and the light - and you see him in return. 

Nothing happened.

John just sat there, staring ahead. A low rattled breath escaped his throat, not quite a sound, but to Sherlock it might as well have been. Because John was screaming.

Sherlock could imagine the horrors John was seeing, a veteran of the Afghan war.

“John,” Sherlock touched his fingers to John’s throat, feeling the bone-chilling cold radiating off of John’s body. Sherlock’s talisman still hung around John’s neck, useless. The Nightmare attacking John had had part of Sherlock’s magic - you couldn’t protect yourself against your own powers. “I need to get him to Baker Street,” Sherlock said, looking at Donovan and Anderson. “Now. Please,” he added and Donovan nodded in agreement.

Together they managed to get John off of Lestrade’s chair and into a cab with Sherlock.

Sherlock clung to John all the way to Baker Street, trying to suppress his anger. Anger wouldn’t help John; Sherlock needed to think, he needed answers, fast. Nobody knew how long John was able to live through his nightmares without going insane.

At Baker Street Sherlock wrestled John out of the cab and up the stairs into 221B, into his chair. As soon as John was placed where he always sat in Sherlock’s flat, Sherlock spun around, whispering silent words, activating all wards known to man. Here at 221B Baker Street nobody, nothing, would be able to get to John. Ever.

Fury now stirred inside of Sherlock, anger but deeper, darker and more dangerous. Rage. Rage that something like this had happened to John. Selfless, caring John.

From that rage came power and Sherlock drew from that power, gathering it between his fingertips. 

“ _Dormius dorme_ ,” Sherlock whispered, touching John’s eyes, closing them gently. “John, _dormius_.”

John let out a long, shivering breath and his expression slackened from horror to deep, silent sleep.

“No more dreams,” Sherlock whispered, touching John’s hair. “Just rest, John.”  
Sherlock stepped away from John and reached for his mobile phone, calling Mycroft.

“I need the book,” Sherlock said without greetings.

_“Sherlock…”_

“It hurt John, Mycroft. I need to find its name to stop it,” he explained and heard Mycroft’s resigned sigh. There was no arguing with Sherlock where John was involved.

_“We have to do this together, Sherlock,”_ Mycroft said, hoping his brother would agree.

“Myc…”

_“Sherlock,”_ Mycroft voice was stern now. _“You don’t know what you are dealing with. Don’t you think your chances of helping John are better with me?”_

Sherlock would have liked to tell Mycroft what he thought of that exactly. He detested asking Mycroft for help. But this, this was so much more important than their little feud. John was hurt and…

“Alright,” Sherlock agreed, gritting his teeth. “I will be there in half an hour,” he said and hung up the phone.

Sherlock went back to where John was sleeping in his chair and kneeled before him, gently touching John’s face.

“I will find whoever did this,” Sherlock promised. “They will regret they have ever heard my name.” He stood, kissed John’s temple and fled, making sure on his way out that all wards were still up, protecting the best thing that had ever happened to him.

~::~::~::~::~

Sherlock arrived at Mycroft’s office thirty-two minutes after he had left Baker Street. He wasted no time greeting his brother, just demanded to be shown to the library and handed the Book of Shadows.

“As you wish, brother dear,” was all Mycroft said, leading Sherlock into the library. “I hope you are aware that the Nightmare is not the one we are actually looking for.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock snarled. “I’m not an idiot.”

Mycroft only nodded his head and reached for a book on the upper shelf.

Of course it had occurred to both Holmes that someone from this world must have summoned the demon to do their dirty work. Demons didn't just cross over from the Nevernever; it was impossible.

Sherlock sunk into one of Mycroft’s chairs and started reading. 

The Book of Shadows was a collection of demons, ghosts, creatures of the Nevernever collected by the White Council. Once you learnt the name of a being you could create a link to hold power over it. You never, ever, gave your full name to someone with any sort of power. It could be deadly for you.

Sherlock leafed through the book as fast as he dared.

_There._

“Azorthragal,” Sherlock whispered and Mycroft set to work, assembling candles and chalk.

Sherlock drew a circle on the floor around him, lighting the candles, then sat down, closing the circle of chalk with his will. He held John’s talisman in his hand, Lestrade’s police batch, things belonging to people the Nightmare had touched.

“Sherlock,...” Mycroft warned but his brother only glared at him and he let him be. He drew another circle around the both of them instead. If Sherlock couldn’t hold the demon within his circle, perhaps they had a better chance with the second one. Mycroft had always been the more sensible one of the two of them.

Sherlock’s body buzzed with energy as he concentrated, gathered his will, his power. The talisman started shimmering with light, the watch getting hot in Sherlock’s hand.

“Azorthragal,” Sherlock shouted and he reached inside his coat pocket for small knife, cutting his finger. Blood dripped onto the circle of chalk, pouring Sherlock’s power directly into it and Sherlock could sense his spell latching onto something in the Nevernever, pulling it in. “Azorthragal,” he called again, breathing heavy as the demon fought against him. “ _Apare!_ ” It hurt, Sherlock blinked, gritting his teeth. This thing was strong, but Sherlock was in control still, his circle was holding and Mycroft was there. Just in case. “ _Apare!_ ” He yelled from the top of his lungs and mist appeared within his circle, slowly taking a vaguely humanoid form. It screamed, trying to escape.

“Who sent you?” Sherlock shouted. “Who brought you over?”

“No one!”

Sherlock forced more power into his circle, into his words, his spell.

“Who sent you?”

“No one!” The Nightmare snarled, struggling against Sherlock’s hold, and then Sherlock felt it: someone else was pulling at the demon from the other side. Someone with the same cold, horrible power Sherlock had felt freeing Lestrade, John, feeding the Nightmare’s power. The Nightmare went into a frenzy, beginning to tear free.

“Wizard,” it howled in triumph. “Sherlock, I will burn the heart out of you!”

Sherlock gritted his teeth, something like panic rising within him. He couldn’t hold the demon, he wasn’t strong enough…

_John._

“Yes!” The Nightmare snarled. “ _Him._ ”

Cold, calculated calmness swept over Sherlock, his eyes taking the colour of a winter storm. He reached deep within himself, searching for the power that lay way beneath the surface. Something he always knew he had but never dared to touch. 

Sherlock could almost hear Mycroft gasp in shock but none of that mattered now. He needed to protect John, at all costs.

“Bound, thou art,” Sherlock whispered, pouring more and more power into his words, his will. He reached toward the Nightmare and found the part of him that was still inside it. “Thy quarrel is now with _me_. Bound, I make thee! Bound!” The spell locked, settled around the Nightmare and Sherlock breached the circle, setting it free.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft sat on the floor, just outside Sherlock’s circle, his face wet from exhaustion. He was still holding the Nightmare within his circle, making it scream in frustration.

“Let it go,” Sherlock said and broke Mycroft’s circle with his foot.

The Nightmare screamed one more time and vanished, leaving Sherlock and Mycroft heavily breathing on the floor.

“That was unwise, brother,” Mycroft said and stood on shaking legs. Sherlock hadn’t even noticed how much help Mycroft had been by just being there.

“I limited its targets,” Sherlock said weakly. This had really drained his powers but he had gotten an impression of the person behind all this. And, hopefully, that would be all he needed.

“By making it come after you,” Mycroft snarled and Sherlock looked up in surprise. Mycroft rarely lost his cool.

“I can protect myself,” Sherlock snarled right back at his brother.

“You did a tremendous job just now,” Mycroft said sarcastically. “Whoever was using the Nightmare cannot use it again as long as you are alive, Sherlock.”

“I don’t intend to get killed,” Sherlock said, standing up. “If you will excuse me, brother, I have important things to do,” he said and left.

In all honesty Sherlock wasn’t quite certain where to go from here. Yes, he had prevented the Nightmare from going after John or anyone else but he still didn’t know who was behind all of this. He had only gotten a tiny glimpse of the person pulling the strings. That wasn’t nearly enough to track him down.

Sherlock flagged down a cab and let himself be driven around endlessly, thinking. Nothing came to mind, nothing. He was exhausted, he needed sleep. Desperately. But he couldn’t rest, he would be vulnerable in sleep now that the Nightmare was solely focused on him.

Splendid.

Sherlock shook his head in annoyance with himself and told the cabbie to get him to Baker Street.

He had almost reached his front door when someone behind him said: “You broke my toy, Sherlock Holmes,” and Sherlock’s blood run cold. That man had said part of his true name just right, had used it to reach out to him, backhand him.

Sherlock swayed on his feet from the impact and the man laughed, maniacally.

“Did nobody ever tell you not to play with other people’s property?”

Sherlock turned around, facing a sharply-dressed man with murderous look on his face, slowly walking toward him.

“Jim Moriarty, hi.”

Sherlock stepped away from his front door, standing opposite Jim Moriarty now.

“How is the good doctor?” Jim asked, eyebrow raised. “I was just about to pay him a visit.”

“No, you weren’t,” Sherlock said, shaking his head.

Jim cocked his head in question.

“You think your wards, your spells would keep him safe here?” He asked sarcastically. “Don’t be silly! I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I’m capable off.”

Sherlock chuckled and Jim’s head came up, his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s face.

“All I’ve seen so far is that you can summon a demon,” Sherlock snarled. “Every schoolboy is capable of that.”

Jim’s eyes turned cold, black and empty, and he reached out with his left hand, snarling: “ _Fuego!_ ”

A ball of blazing hot fire roared toward Sherlock, would have hit him square in the face. But his instinct was still on alert, and his protective shield was just up in time.

“It was nice playing with you,” Jim said, sending fireball after fireball toward Sherlock, making him sweat with exhaustion. “But you are in my way now.” He send more fire. “I will burn you!” Jim snarled. “I will burn the _heart_ out of you!”

“I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. He couldn’t withstand this onslaught for much longer. He needed...

“We both know that’s not quite true.” John was suddenly standing on the doorstep of Baker Street, his army revolver in hand, and pointing at Moriarty.

“Oh now, that just cheating,” Moriarty said in a sulking voice, stopping his attack on Sherlock.

“John,” Sherlock gasped in surprise.

“I can see why you like him,” Jim said gleefully. “Such a resilient, loyal pet.”

“Shut up!” Sherlock and John said in unison, making Moriarty laugh.

“So sweet,” Jim cooed and John fired his gun, the bullet hitting the pavement in front of Jim’s feet, making him jump.

“I said, shut up!” John repeated, hand steady. “Sherlock?” He asked. “Are you alright?”

“He won’t be for long,” Jim said in a sing-song voice and as if he had known what was going to happen, Sherlock dropped to the ground, hands around his throat, fighting an invisible attacker.

Jim Moriarty laughed, and laughed while Sherlock’s body went cold, numb. The Nightmare was back, stronger now while his master was close, feeding it power.

“Sherlock!” John yelled, trying to gather what was happening. All he saw was Sherlock on the ground in agony and Moriarty laughing, his eyes fixed on Sherlock like he was watching a boxing match, orchestrating it.

“Bloody hell,” John mumbled, lifting his gun and shooting Moriarty straight between the eyes. 

Sherlock couldn’t so much see but feel what was happening. His hands were numb trying to keep the wire from engulfing his throat, suffocating him. But the Nightmare was too strong - perhaps Sherlock was too weak after the ordeal of the last hours - and Moriarty's insanity was fuelling its power. And then it was gone. The Nightmare’s strength lessened and Sherlock felt a bit of hope that he might actually survive this. He struggled harder, pulled at the wire. But power was pouring out him uselessly like a bottle of water with tiny holes in it. He screamed, the coldness spreading through his body when suddenly hands were on his face, his neck, pouring warmth through him.

“Sherlock,” John whispered helplessly. “Tell me what to do.”

“Keep touching me,” Sherlock said and John did him one better. He kissed him, his lips touching Sherlock’s and Sherlock drank it all in: John’s warmth, his power, his faith in him.

The Nightmare lost its iron-hard grip and Sherlock was able to just rip the wire free from his body, throwing it away. It fell to the ground a few metres away, thrashed and vanished.

“That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done,” John said, his forehead touching Sherlock’s, and he started giggling.

“And you invaded Afghanistan,” Sherlock retorted deadpan, joining John’s laughter.

“That wasn’t just me.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock said and kissed him again.

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on Jim Butcher's "The Dresden Files - Grave Peril". If you gotta steal, steal from the best, right?
> 
> Many thanks to stillcentre for beta!


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